


Comas and Otherwise Staying Alive

by stepstostars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepstostars/pseuds/stepstostars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg's in a coma and people visit him, confessing things to him they usually wouldn't because he's, well, unconscious. He can hear them, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comas and Otherwise Staying Alive

**Author's Note:**

> So there are several OCs that kind of pop in a bit throughout the story. They don't play a big part, though. I just felt that I needed to make Greg a family, because I'm sentimental.
> 
> This fic should also be properly named: that fic with the randomly appearing furniture and the strange storytelling transitions.
> 
> Written for the meme: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/17487.html?thread=102764623#t102764623

_Coma_ says a voice—professional, unfamiliar, calm— _severe head trauma, that collision should have killed him_.

Greg’s not in a coma, though. 

Or maybe he is.

Now that he thinks about it, the world’s dark and his body feels heavy, like moving would take all the strength he has.

Okay, maybe he is in a coma. Fuck.

A wave of weariness engulfs him then, a surprise attack that drags him under before he has any chance to resist.

\--

“I still think you’re an idiot.”

Greg looks around and finds himself standing in a blank white room, completely empty of any contents. He’s in the center, standing alone and feeling exposed. There are no doors, no windows, nothing around him, but he can’t help but feel like someone’s watching him.

The voice starts again, and Greg can’t help but feel that it’s coming from _outside._ It’s deep—soothing in a way—but it puts him on edge for a reason he doesn’t quite understand. “You risked your life for me. Multiple times. And again, this time, and all for what?”

Well, that was a simple question, wasn’t it? “It’s the right thing to do,” he says to the empty room.

The voice ignores him. “You care too much.” It sounds spiteful. Dark words for dark people, after all. “You all do.”

He doesn’t have much to say in reply, because who _says_ that kind of stuff? He should know—it’s speaking to him, after all—but he can’t quite put his mind together to place names yet. Everything’s still a bit foggy.

“I just don’t understand,” says the voice before it pauses. “Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, you, Donovan, Anderson _,_ even—and John.”

Lovely, names. Exactly what he needs to remind him of how little he knows right now. They sound familiar, but whenever he really _thinks_ about one, it just bounces off his brain like a tennis ball off a wall.

“You’ve all just decided to make everything so complicated—having to deal with all this mess of propriety, politeness, courtesy—this ridiculous need not to _offend_ anyone. Being alone was never this irritating.”

There’s a longer pause this time.

The voice is quieter. “Not that _that_ was much better, really.” There’s a sigh. “Sometimes I wonder, after having earned all your trust, if it will simply be wasted. If you will all suddenly decide that I’m not worth the effort after all. That my genius is useful, but not enough to make up for my faults.”

“That’s what friendship is,” starts Greg, but he’s quickly interrupted before he can explain anything.

“It just seems such a steep price to pay.”

There’s some screeching and scratching, and then Greg hears footsteps, echoing fainter and fainter as they walk away. He’s left in this empty white room, no voice to accompany or distract him from his isolation.

“You know,” he says to the room, “I’d take having massive insecurity issues over being randomly interrupted and abandoned.”

\--

“I can’t help but resent him a little bit, you know?”

The voice is female this time. It’s a forced kind of confident, as if its owner felt she would be looked down upon if she were anything but brash and self-assured. It rings harsh in Greg’s ears, and he can’t help but wince at the tang of steel it clangs out.

The walls of the room are still a blank white, but there’s a leather couch in the corner, which is nice. He’s temped to sit, but he’s not tired, and sitting while talking to a voice just seems ridiculous.

“I mean,” starts the voice again, this time more mellow, much more natural, “I don’t want him to be here in your place or something. I don’t _hate_ him. It’s just—he can be such an utter prick at times, you know? He’s brilliant, an utter genius, but,” it sighs, “I don’t know. You’re the only one who understands how it feels. I didn’t ever have to say, you would just _know_ , because you felt it, too. About him.”

“No,” says Greg, because he can barely remember his own name, never mind trying to comprehend this obviously dysfunctional relationship. “I really don’t think I would understand. That sounds quite bloody complicated, please explain.”

“I finally took your advice, you know,” the voice says instead. “I broke it off with Anderson. It wasn’t good for either of us.”

“Good for you,” says Greg, “Unhealthy relationships are a waste of time.”

He feels an odd pang from those words, but his mind hasn’t decided to make itself clear yet.

“Come back whole, please, sir.” There’s a pause, and then, “Greg.”

Greg hears the footsteps walk away again, and he sighs. “It’d be nice if they’d listen to _me_ , for once,” he says.

\--

“Thank you.”

This voice is quiet; calm and tactful with just the slightest string of tension underneath it all.

The walls are still white and the couch is still there, but now a desk’s popped up. It’s slightly off-center, on the opposite side of the couch. There’s no chair, and Greg’s not going to pull the couch up to it—that would be idiotic. He leans against it, though, letting the edge of it dig uncomfortably into his back.

“I know Sherlock’s a prat most of the time,” continues the voice, “but he does care for you. Even if he doesn’t show it very often.”

The voice lowers then, as if confiding a secret. “To be honest, he thinks the world of you. You’re one of the only people he trusts.”

“Dysfunctional relationships are bad,” says Greg, “Why do I have so many?”

“Again, Greg, thank you.”

The thuds are solid and even, and somehow that seems a bit _off_.

\--

“Sir.”

Greg looks up from where he’s lying on the couch. He makes eye contact with a light beige ceiling, wondering who it could be _now_. It’s someone different again, though he can’t read the voice yet.

“I shouldn’t have started up with Sally, you were right.”

Ah. This must be Anderson. His voice is a mix of regret and tenacity, obviously sorry for his mistakes but still solid after having accepted them. He doesn’t sound like a terrible man who would hound Sally, and Greg is glad.

“I still don’t trust him.” The voice is stronger now, slightly more self-assured. “He’s just so…flippant with his genius. It doesn’t feel right.”

Greg hears someone else walk into the room, and then a soft conversation he can’t quite make out.

“Get better, sir,” says the voice. Greg hears two pairs of footsteps echoing out.

He looks over at the walls; they’re finally coloured in.

No chair for his desk, though.

\--

“Christ, please, _please_ wake up soon.”

The voice is harried; tired, overworked, and stressed. Greg’s almost glad he doesn’t have to deal with any of that right now. It sounds so incredibly draining.

“I’d love to,” he says instead, “But it seems I’m quite stuck.”

“Gregson refuses to use him, which means he ends up bothering _me_.” There’s a bit of a strangled _ggruogeg_ at the end. “He texts me. Constantly. Until I reply. And then he has the gall to _insult_ me if I don’t have an interesting enough case. I don’t understand how you managed to deal with him on a daily basis. It’s _torture_.”

He secretly wishes that he could believe these people talking to him are describing more than one person, but he already knows that it’s just one prat causing all the trouble. It was like he was a full-time nanny as well as—a police officer, apparently. Probably at least detective sergeant by the way people refer to him.

“He interrupts press conferences, invades my flat, steals my warrant cards,” says the voice, pitch steadily increasing as it goes, “And he _still_ expects me to give him cases.”

Maybe he’s a detective inspector—that would be nice. It’d always been a childhood dream of his.

“One time, I walked out of my shower, and _there he was_. Just lying there on my couch as if it were his. Who the bloody hell does he think he is?”

What if he’s a chief inspector? That’d be even better than superintendent. He could still investigate without being chained to his desk.

“I, just—“ the voice pauses, taking a second to breathe, “Please just wake up soon. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

The footsteps walk away again. At least he has a chair for his desk now.

\--

“You know, I think you’re faking, honestly.”

Another new voice. This time’s a bit more arrogant and aggressive, as well as a great deal lower in pitch.

“Dimmock’s been in a fret since you’ve been knocked out. Going bloody crazy with that wild consultant of yours hovering over him.” There’s a laugh, “It’s actually quite funny to watch, really. The poor bugger.”

“You’re a bit of a prick,” says Greg, even as he laughs. “You could at least help control him.”

“Before you go on one of your self-righteous lectures, let me inform you that I’ve assigned Hopkins to go help him out. That bloke can handle Holmes almost as well as you can. Adores the wanker for some reason—hero worship at its worst.”

 _Police Constable Hopkins_ says his brain, one of his team. At least this man had some mercy, then.

“But I didn’t come here to talk about your consultant. I came to talk to you. Or, well, at least at you.” Greg can hear the smile in the voice harden to a stern line. “Wake up, already. The Yard’s bloody boring without you. No one interesting to piss the wind with. Dimmock’s a wet rag when he has to deal with anything mildly stressful and Bradstreet’s dull as a butter knife.”

Greg laughs; he does know.

“Get better, you arse. I don’t want to cover for your work anymore.”

This time when he hears the footsteps walk away, Greg’s smiling at the newly appeared lamp on his desk.

\--

“It wasn’t just Danny.”

The second Greg hears the voice, he freezes. Ice is creeping up from the base of his spine, and all he wants to do right now is _run_.

“I—I felt lonely, I guess. You just weren’t at home much anymore.”

“Stop!” he shouts, grabbing a cushion from the couch and dragging it over his head, “I don’t want to—don’t need to hear this.”

But the voice, that disgustingly smooth, calm voice, keeps going. “It was a mistake at first,” it says, “A bit too much to drink with a few old friends. But it felt so good to be _needed_ again. So I did it again, and then I just couldn’t stop.”

He shuts his eyes, and hopes that _this_ will stop soon.

“I’m sorry, Greg,” whispers the voice, “Sorry that I couldn’t tell you this while you were awake. That I wasn’t strong enough to uphold my vows. That we ended the way we did.”

He can feel his stomach dropping.

“Goodbye, Greg.”

His heart thumps in time with her footsteps. It hurts—but at the end of it all, Greg can’t help but feel free.

The answering machine on his desk blinks at him. _One missed message_ it says, flashing red light falling on closed eyes.

\--

“Wake up.”

The deep voice from the beginning is back, impatience ringing from every word. Greg ignores it, busy pressing buttons on the answering machine (no phone, how funny his subconscious was). The message is still inaccessible.

“This isn’t interesting anymore,” tries the voice. “The Yard is unbearably boring when you’re not there. Gregson refuses to work with me, Dimmock’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and Hopkins—” There’s a growl of frustration, “He’s so _earnestly_ useless.”

Greg stops poking the blinking red button for a second to frown up at the ceiling. “It’s not like I want to be here. This isn’t very interesting, either, you know.”

The steps flounce off, and Greg can practically _see_ a coat whipping behind them.

He checks the drawers of the desk again, irritated to find that his ex-wife’s gift is a blank sheaf of papers.

\--

“Detective Inspector.”

Greg perks up, sitting up from where he was slouching against the couch. He _is_ a Detective Inspector, then.

“You’ve saved my brother again, it seems. Thank you.”

This voice is calm, possessing more poise and forced politeness than Greg would ever be able to muster. It almost sounds like it’s in pain—talking so stiltedly.

“I wish it hadn’t ended in your injury, however.” There’s a bit of hesitance before it speaks again. “I’m not quite sure which is worse—seeing you so still and lifeless, or imagining him in your place.”

“He’s your _brother_ ,” says Greg, “How is that even a questi—oh.”

“You,” the voice stops.

Greg sits up straighter on the couch, eyes boring into the ceiling.

“You were different,” it finally whispers.

The steps are understated but solid, the slightest thump of—a cane? an umbrella?—joining every other thud.

Greg looks over at the desk, watching the blinking red light continue to taunt him. He ignores the wooden bookshelf that’s popped in across from him, shelves bare of any covering.

\--

“I almost miss your fumbling at press conferences.”

Her voice starts mellow this time, Greg is glad to hear, though there’s an undertone of weariness beneath it.

“He’s off bothering Dimmock for cases now, with Gregson the one choosing cases for us to follow.” There’s a sigh. “He’s worried that we can’t handle anything major with your recent…incapacitation. Not that your missing hasn’t affected us,” she hurries to add, “But it’s like he’s feeding us off a platter.”

Greg blinks.

“It’s—” There’s another sigh, “I can’t believe I’m quoting him, but it’s _boring_.”

He looks over at his desk and sees a few rows of books sitting on the shelf. When she leaves, he flips one open, only to find himself looking at a blank page in disgust.

“Well, so is this,” he complains to the ceiling.

\--

“He’s _insane_.”

Harried-voice—or, well, Dimmock, apparently—is back, sounding noticeably more stressed compared to last time. The poor bloke.

“I just—I don’t—can’t deal with him anymore. Hurry up and wake up already.”

“I’d love to,” he says, “But, again, kind of stuck here.”

There’s a deep sigh, and then Greg hears the tell-tale signs of someone standing up, the metallic screech of a chair scratching against tile, and then footsteps walking away.

He looks around the room, blinking when he sees glass embedded in the wall.

It’s a window.

He races up, rushing to it, only to find it opaque. It doesn’t reflect or show anything—it’s just a pane of glass in the wall.

“Bloody hell,” he says, because what’s the use of a window if he can’t look out?

\--

“Sherlock isn’t the only one that misses you.”

It’s the second bloke, calm-but-dangerous.

“He isn’t the only one with trust issues, after all.” There’s a strained laugh. “He’s not the only one who thinks you a friend, Greg.”

This time it’s a cabinet next to the bookshelf. He wonders if the phone for the answering machine will work. Or if he’ll ever hear the message.

\--

“The driver of the car has been dealt with.”

It’s the brother. He doesn’t even bother to sit down. He just says his piece and walks off, leaving Greg alone again.

 

And now there are _two_ answering machines blinking at him. Bloody things.

\--

“I’m going to steal Baynes off you if you don’t wake up soon, you know.”

Gregson, that arse. “Don’t you dare,” he says, although he’s not very sure who Baynes is. “Baynes is mine.”

There’s a laugh, “Joking, of course. He’s utterly devoted to you. Your whole team is. Nothing to worry about from them.” Gregson chuckles for a bit longer. “Hurry up and wake up, will you? I’m being forced to talk to Bradstreet, and nice and polite as he is, he doesn’t make for very interesting conversation.”

“Deal with it,” snaps Greg, but he’s smiling. Another chair’s appeared, in front of the desk. For visitors, probably—except he doesn’t think he can _have_ visitors here.

“Don’t be a git and keep us waiting any longer.”

“I’ll try not to,” he says, listening to the heavy footsteps walking away.

There’s a phone.

\--

“Is this why you wanted me to get clean?”

Ah, the-prat-with-deep-voice-and-insecurity-issues is back. He leans back into the couch, hugging the newly appeared pillow to his chest.

“It’s disgusting—watching someone waste away when he could be doing something more useful.” The prat—Sherlock—hops up, pacing along the floor, “You have potential, if you’d just stretch your imagination, Lestrade.”

“Terribly sorry,” says Greg dryly, “Let me go change my world view right now, then.”

“I haven’t used in five years. I hope you’re happy.” There’s a pause, and then a grumpy, “Now wake up.”

The phone rings, and Greg jumps up, head twisting to stare at it. He doesn’t get off the couch, letting it ring out. He doesn’t realize Sherlock’s left before he notices the silence surrounding him again.

\--

“Christ, Greg, we came here as soon as we could.”

Greg blinks; the voice sounds terribly familiar. It’s a low tenor, similar to his own timbre, in fact.

“You have no idea how hard it is to get tickets to London on short-notice, but we managed to get lucky,” says another new voice. A woman’s voice—still extremely familiar, “There was a last-minute cancellation, though. The tickets were surprisingly cheap.”

“Practically free,” adds the tenor.

“Only for you, David. I had to pay full price.” There’s a sigh. “Mum and dad are on the train here. We’ll keep them up at a hotel. I hope you don’t mind if David and I kip in your flat, though.”

“Yeah, sure,” says Greg, because he’s in a coma, and they’re family, and it’s not like he could say anything else.

“That’s not a question, by the by,” says David, “We’ve cleaned it up already. I don’t know how you lived in there; Amy almost tripped over your dirty laundry on her way in.”

“Didn’t have time to do it,” he grumbles, “I was in the middle of a busy case.”

“Mum says you need to call more, too. We know you’re busy fighting crime and all, but she’s worried that you’ll accidentally kill yourself and we won’t hear until we see it in the obituaries,” says Amy.

“Kind of like this. If your Sergeant hadn’t called, we probably wouldn’t have ever heard.”

“It’s been two weeks since you’ve been hospitalised, and we didn’t hear until a few days ago. Really, Greg, that’s just harsh.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have an emergency procedure for this sort of thing,” says Greg, frowning, it was always irritating when they teamed up on him. “I never expected this to happen.”

He can feel a spot of warmth on his hand, and the phone starts ringing again.

“We’ll be here for you, Greg. Never forget that.”

He lets the phone ring out, lying frozen on his couch and staring at the ceiling long after they’ve left him. The answering machines continue blinking, _one new message_.

He sighs and finally gives in—pressing the button.

It connects with a click: “One new message.”

\--

Greg doesn’t dream often, not in this room. He does sleep when he’s bored—it seems he’s still capable of that—but that seems to be the extent of it.

So when he opens his eyes and finds himself sitting in an office—glass walls surrounding him, files messily strewn across a wooden desk, cabinets packed into the corners—he knows he’s dreaming, but it’s still weirdly fascinating.

The door cracks open, and a woman, dark hair and skin, peeks her head in. “The files, sir?”

Greg looks down; the pages are all blank. “What?” he asks instead.

She gives an irritated sigh, “I told you an hour ago that we needed those done.”

“Sally?” A man joins her at the edge of Greg’s door. “Gregson’s looking for you.”

She turns to the new stranger for a second, a soft smile on her lips. “Right, thanks.” Her glare back at Greg is a deep contrast to her previous gentleness. “I expect those files soon, _sir_.”

Another man runs in, ringing phone in hand. “It’s for you, sir. It’s—”

 

“Dull. _Dull_.”

Greg stares at this man, the prat—pale grey eyes keen as a knife’s edge and dark black curls flopping across his head—whose arms are currently flailing around.

“Can’t you see?” he asks, his hand making another wave at the body on the floor, “It’s all there, like a feast for the eyes. And it’s all so easy, so _boring_.”

“You’re—it’s a murder,” says Greg, “You can’t honestly tell me you won’t help because it’s _boring_.”

“I can, and I just did.” The prat twists away, coat flapping behind him.

He steps forward, reaching out to grab the man’s collar. “ _You—”_ The name’s on the tip of his tongue, but it refuses to slip off.

His phone rings, a jarring ringing sound that’s vaguely familiar. The prat looks at him, frown on his face and eyes angry, “I believe that’s yours, Detective—“

 

“—Inspector.”

A man claps him on the shoulder, “Congratulations, you bloody arse. Finally joining us in the ranks.” He laughs, pushing a pint of Strong Bow into his hands. “Even Bradstreet’s here. I can’t imagine how you became friends with the stodge.”

Greg blinks, mechanically lifting the pint to his mouth. “Right, thanks, mate.” He manages a smile, “They finally realized I’m infinitely better at this than you, huh?”

“Fuck you,” says Gregson—it must be, no one else could swear as much as him. He shoves at Greg, sloshing a bit of cider onto his suit. “You’re pissed.”

“Probably,” agrees Greg, although he’s anything but. The pub is cheery though, and he’s easily caught up in the mood.

The ring cuts in too soon, and Gregson looks at him knowingly. “The wife, eh? How are things—“

 

“—doing.”

Her lips are close to his, and he’s just aching to _touch_.

She smiles, mouth curving into a beautiful arch, hazel eyes bright and brown hair slipping across her shoulders. “You still haven’t told me, Greg. What are we doing?”

“I thought that was quite clear,” he says, moving a hand to cup her cheek. He brushes a light kiss against her jaw, backing away to press two more against her forehead and nose.

She leans forward, lips pressing against his—and it’s wonderful and amazing—and then he hears a ring.

She pulls back, blinking. “Is that—“

 

“—for me?”

There’s a squeal, and Greg finds himself barreled over. The voice is high and childish, barely at the cusp of adolescence, and he’s confused. He doesn’t have children—

Another pair of arms grabs them both, and Greg turns to see another child, a boy this time, smiling wildly at them. “Hey, I helped pick it out, you know?”

The girl let’s go of him, batting at the other boy’s shoulder playfully. “Thank you, too, David. This is wonderful.”

“Anything for you, my lady.” David takes a mock bow.

Greg laughs and smiles, “You’re our little sister, Amy. It’s expected of us.”

Amy’s grin is bright and sunny when the phone starts ringing, “Still, thank—”

 

“—you. I cannot _believe_ you, Sherlock.”

There’s another voice berating the prat—Sherlock, he remembers now.

“You can’t just expect us to stand here and let you run off.” Calm-but-dangerous is standing there, hands at his hips and frowning. “He was _armed_. You have to tell us your deductions, or at least where you’re going if you’re doing these kind of things.”

Sherlock huffs, pulling up his collar and looking suitably irritated. “I can take care of myself, John.”

“Apparently not,” says John, crossing his arms in his own act of defiance. Greg’s phone goes off; they both ignore it. “You’re acting like—”

 

“—an idiot. That’s what you are.”

She turns and stomps to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. “You’re never home anymore,” she shouts, “We barely even see each other. How in the world do you think this could work anymore?”

“Wait,” he protests, “Look, I can—”

His phone starts ringing then, and he can hear her disgusted laugh, “There is it. Work calling again. You don’t—“

 

“—know what it’s like.”

Sally wrings her hands. “How would you know? You’re happily married, with someone you love—“

“You deserve more,” he says, “If he can’t commit himself fully, he’s not worth it.”

She waves a hand at him. “See? That’s what I mean, you don’t _understand—”_ The phone starts ringing while she talks, drowning her voice out, and he barely catches the next few whispered words, “It’s better than being—”

 

“—tired, Detective Inspector?”

Greg cuts off mid-yawn, eyeing the man suspiciously—nicely tailored three-piece suit, charcoal jacket and waistcoat, crimson red tie, crisp white shirt, complete with an affected air of nonchalance. They’re in an abandoned warehouse, dimly lit and suitably dangerous-looking.

“You pulled me out at three in the morning,” says Greg, “I think that speaks for itself.”

The man’s smile is so fake it almost hurts Greg to see it. “Mycroft Holmes, Detective Inspector. Pleased to make—“

 

 

“—your acquaintance.”

He shakes the offered hand, giving the man a smile of his own. “You come high recommended,” he says, “I look forward to working with you.”

Dimmock—because it must be him; the voice is spot on and his eyes are bright but tired—ignores his phone . “Thank you, sir, it’s nice—“

 

 

“—to finally see your stupidity realized, Lestrade.”

He’s lying on the ground, feeling like shit, and Sherlock’s looking down on him, smug smile in tow.

“Fuck you,” he says, “Help me up.”

Sherlock continues to stare down at him, making no move to give him a hand and there’s a low vibrating buzz in his pocket. “Really, drinking your sorrows away, Lestrade?” he says instead, “How—”

 

 

“—fucking stupid, you arse.”

“Hey, that’s—” starts Greg.

“Don’t you dare open your bloody mouth,” snaps Gregson, glaring angrily at him. The ring tone this time is faint and horrifyingly bouncy. “You could’ve gotten yourself _killed_ , you ridiculous bastard. You could’ve gotten _all_ of us bloody killed because you didn’t—”

 

 

“—take out the trash.”

Amy sighs, hands on her hips. “It’s your turn, Greg.”

“It is _not_ ,” he argues, but she just gives him a _look_. “Fine, I’ll get it,” he grumbles.

She smiles. The home phone rings. “I’ll get that, just don’t forget—”

 

 

 

“—your cuffs, Greg.”

John passes them to him with a soft smile. “I’m trying to get him to stop snatching other people’s things, but he keeps insisting—” There’s a buzz. “That must be Sherlock,” apologises John. “He’s—”

 

 

 

“—my worst nightmare.”

Anderson sulks into his beer, looking put out and irritated. His phone rings and he sighs. “The wife, again. She just—”

 

 

 

“—doesn’t love you anymore, does she, Detective Inspector?”

Mycroft looks at him with a vicious smirk. “You work long hours with little reward. She hardly even sees you anymore, hmm?” He can hear his phone ring—it’s probably Sherlock bothering him for a case. “Don’t let me keep you—“

 

 

 

 

“Stop,” whispers Greg. Images spiral around him, taunting him with the edges of their beginnings and endings, and his voice becomes stronger. “Stop!”

Everything freezes—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

—before moving back into motion, memories spinning in on themselves faster than ever, wrapping around Greg in slips of black and white until he falls into a haze of grey.

\--

“Detective Inspector.”

Greg blinks himself awake—right, it’s time for another visitor—before falling off the couch in surprise when he sees a man standing by his desk, beautifully manicured fingers tapping against the wood.

“What—how are you here?” he asks, staring at the man in wonder.

The man shakes his head and ignores the question. “Don’t you think it’s time to wake up?”

“I’m _stuck_.” Greg frowns, he recognizes the voice—it’s the brother, the one who…confessed. “I thought it’d be obvious, there’re no doors to this place, you know. And the window is indestructible. I’ve thrown a bloody chair at it.”

The phone rings again, jolting him up. The man—Mycroft— _looks_ at him before waving at the phone. “I believe it’s for you.”

Greg bites his lip, “But I’m not—I can’t even remember who I am.”

Mycroft’s smile is sharp. “Then we’ll help you.”

“How do you know?” demands Greg, “What if I just never remember? At least here, I’ll get bits and pieces. Out there—I don’t know.”

Mycroft shrugs. “Who does?” And with Greg’s next blink, he’s gone.

The phone rings again, and Greg looks at it nervously. He walks over to it, running a finger down the back of it, and breathes out.

“Hello?”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to write his parents. Because I'm an ass.
> 
> There is also no real Mycroft/Lestrade other than the pre-slashy kind (except in Greg's head) because I'm terrible, and I liked the ending as is. There may or may not be an epilogue/sequel with lots of fluff.


End file.
